A Shift In The Wind
by StoryDiva
Summary: A vignette where Sydney tries to make sense of the life she's had since returning. Spoilers for Season Three up through to finale.


Title: A Shift In The Wind 

Rating: PG 

Spoilers: Season Three up through last new episode 

Pairings: Syd/Vaughn 

Author's Note: I don't know why whenever I attempt write Sydney angst pours out of me, but it does. It's not my forte either, so I apologize for what I might have done to my favorite television character. 

_You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows--"Subterranean Homesick Blues" - Bob Dylan_

Sydney always told herself that her love for literature came from her mother, well, not her mother so much as the perceived memory of her mother. It was the images of her mother reading to her when she was younger or the way her mother would walk around the house quoting Anna Karenina as she picked things up that Sydney recalled so vividly. She realized that none of that was real, that it was all an act on her mother's part, but the fires of addiction had been kindled and she was sure that the only solace left in her life came in the form of written words. 

Sydney loved the smell of books, the way musty old novels by Russian authors were filled with dust from sitting on the top of a bookcase for too long or how the freshly printed ink scent of a new chick lit novel lingered in the air around her. No matter what the type of book—hard covered, paperback, broken in from years of re-reading or new—she found herself taking in deep breaths as she ingested the words on the page. She wondered, in these moments of weakness, if this was what those kids who sniffed paint were like. Lost in their own self-gratification and unaware of eyes watching them from across a linoleum floor. 

It was out of character for her to sit at her desk with a book, but she needed to do something to pass the time while she waited for her father to finish with his briefing. Jack had promised her a normal night, a father-daughter evening with talk of ordinary things, though she couldn't fathom the idea of the name Jack Bristow and the word in the same sentence. At least he was trying and she needed a break from this place and the isolated life she had created for herself since her return. It seemed that the only socializing she did these days was under the guise of a mission and apparently it hadn't gone as unnoticed as she had hoped. 

She refused to think about it any longer. It was her permanent pink elephant, stifling her, inundating the air around her until she couldn't breathe and never far from her thoughts. She was as good as dead if she kept it up much longer. It was like that line from the Bob Dylan song: _you don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. _It was true. No one needed to tell her how out of control things in her life had gotten. 

It was a never-ending avalanche of information burying her: _Vaughn was married, Vaughn was getting separated, wait no, Vaughn was going to make his marriage work...no again, Lauren was the Covenant mole and Vaughn was getting divorced. _And, contrary to what he thought sometimes, it wasn't all about Michael Vaughn either. There were mornings where she would have to remind herself of things, mornings where thoughts blended together into one huge mess: _Francie is dead...that was Allison you shared secrets with...the girl who murdered your best friend...Allison survived your bullets, but not Will's knifeWill was gone...Will was alive, but no more while Jonah worked construction and sent her emails from time to time...Sloane was reformed according to the CIA but not anymore...I have a sistera half sister from my mom's affair with Arvin Sloaneew, yuck...but I have a sister._

It was as though every time she thought she had a handle on things, every time she felt comfortable with where she stood, something happened to put it all in some sort of warped perspective. Sydney had lived through bad before. She could tolerate bad, well equipped to manage it, but this was different. It was obvious to everyone around her that things weren't right, that they hadn't been since her return, and that maybe she needed a change. It was obvious, but complicated. 

It was far from simple when the only thing left of her life was the one thing she had planned to give up once Sloane was caught. Logically, she was sure that continuing to wallow in her loneliness and heartbreak—the back and forth, back and forth, yo-yo motions of her life at the CIA and with Vaughn in particular—would destroy her in the end like the most tragic of heroines from literature. She'd be nothing more than a footnote in time, not as Rambaldi's chosen one, but a woman overwrought by her loss of time who barely remembered how to live. She would become the ghost Vaughn took her for upon her initial return in Hong Kong. 

It wasn't as if she had no enjoyment in her life, but she wanted more of those moments, more of an existence beyond super spy. So Sydney made a decision. Nothing life altering yet, but rather something easy to undertake. She was going to leave her work at the front doors for once and allow books and dinners with her dad and drinking terrible beer with Eric while watching bad kung fu movies to reign over her personal life. 

It had to start with one moment, one night, _that night_. She wasn't going to worry about Lauren, Sark, or the Covenant's activities for one evening. She was going to wait for her father, kick off her shoes, and read about people with lives more appealing than her own. 

Sydney ran her fingers over the type, scanning the sentences and closing her eyes against the way words could run so beautifully together. It was amazing how easy it was to get lost in a string of phrases and she almost convinced herself that the wind was shifting in her favor. 

That was until she noticed Vaughn approaching her and she tried to ignore the tension that built up in her neck. She didn't want to do this. Couldn't he see that she had a plan? Maybe if he didn't scuff his shoes quite so loudly as he crossed the floor, she would've been able to go on reading without glancing at him, but he was forcing her to acknowledge him. 

Am I interrupting? he asked. It wasn't so much a question because there was no response that would turn him away. 

Sydney glanced up. She had been avoiding Vaughn since the last mission when he had gone a bit berserk, but it seemed as if her reprieve from dealing with one of the main issues plaguing her life was over. It was as though he had manifested all the hate and betrayal eating at him and transformed into a monster before her eyes. She understood it; she just couldn't handle it. Not then and not now. 

I'm waiting for my father. 

I figured, Vaughn replied. He stared at her. It was the intense, I-have-something-to-tell-you-but-I'm-not-sure-how glaze he got in his eyes from time to time since her return. At least, she was pretty sure it had started upon her return. She couldn't recall a time prior to her missing two years where Michael Vaughn was anything but forthcoming with information. He leaned across her desk and fingered the cover of the book. He said, Is it any good? 

Sydney placed her book down, careful not to lose her page, and folded her arms protectively across her chest. She asked, Are we really going to do this, Vaughn? 

Because I made a pact with myself that for one night I was going to relax and enjoy the fact that I'm alive. 

And talking to me— 

It's not talking to you that's the problem, Vaughn. It's all the things we don't say to one another. 

You can talk to me about anything. 

She stood up and stared at him. She knew he thought he meant what he was saying and that almost made her forget everything else. He had this ability to make her lose sight of rationality—something no one, not even Danny, had ever managed to do before. She sighed and replied, Maybe I'm not the right person to talk to about this. Maybe you need to talk with Dr. Barnett— 

No, I'm fine. Really. 

You're not, Vaughn. You're angry. You're a loose cannon and, for the first time since I've known you, I felt uncomfortable having you as my backup. 

You can trust me, Syd. Am I angry about things? Yeah. Of course I am. Lauren deceived me and...she needs to pay for everything she's done. 

And you're the one-man vigilante to bring her in? Sydney questioned. When he didn't respond, she sighed and said, I see you and I see you becoming like my father. He—don't get me wrong, I love him and I know I can count on him, but he's so..._suspicious _of everyone he comes in contact with. He's still so angry about what my mother did after over twenty years and I hate seeing that in him—I don't want to have to see that in your eyes too. 

The difference is I have you. 

I love you, Vaughn. I always will, but I don't know what the future holds for us. I don't know if I can venture back down that road with you—what if we lost our chance or what if we're too different now? 

I know I hurt you and that I made mistakes this past year. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that it made you lose faith in me and I'm sorry I couldn't save you that night. 

That's not what this is about, Vaughn. 

What do you want me to say? 

I don't know. I don't think there are any surefire words that magically fix things between us. 

You're all I've ever wanted, Sydney, and once Lauren has been brought to justice, I plan to make that clear to you, he said. He turned and walked off, leaving her to ponder what he said. A part of her wanted nothing more than to run off after him and pull him into a concealed corner for a kiss. That part of her was so strong that she felt her feet step away from her desk before she even realized what she was doing. 

The other part of her knew that change was swirling around her and if she wasn't careful, if she waited on Michael Vaughn yet again, the opportunity to find some happiness might pass her by. She wouldn't let that happen—not for Vaughn, not for anyone—and instead sat down. She tucked her legs under her chair, picked up her book and went back to reading. 

The rest could wait until tomorrow. Tonight she was going to try something new. 

_{/fin}_


End file.
